Reichenbach Rising
by ChairmanKyra
Summary: A year after Sherlock's death, John is kidnapped by a man demanding to know where he can find Sherlock and refusing to believe the detective is dead. Before the man can kill John, two tall men in a blue box come to the rescue. Adventures ensue.
1. Prologue

_Bored,_ John thought.

It was a lazy Sunday in 221b, a thing that was still very new to him. It had been some time since he had had the luxury of doing nothing on a Sunday afternoon. Now he would give anything to be dragged from one end of London to the other, chasing some half-explained lead that he wouldn't fully understand until the cab ride home, if then.

_Maybe I could phone Lestrade,_ he mused, _Maybe he has a new case. Weekends are always good for murder, Sherlock said. _But no, Lestrade seemed to have learned his lesson about letting people onto his crime scenes, and had been extremely closed about his work on the few occasions he and John had spoken since Sherlock's death.

His thoughts were inturrupted by a knock on the downstairs door. _Who could that be?_ He wondered. Mrs. Hudson never bothered to knock, and Mycroft hadn't been round since the day he'd come to collect his brother's posessions.

John pushed himself up out of his chair by the fire and made his way down the steps to the door. He tugged it open and suddenly found himself face to face with a tall man in a red bowtie and a ridiculously wide grin.

"John!" the man exclaimed. "Fantastic to see you again, absolutely fantastic! How've you been?"

"Do-do I know you?" John asked as the stranger pushed past him into the entry hall and bounded up the stairs to 221b. John follwed him as quick as he could manage. "You've redecorated!" the stranger cried, evidently not listening. "Very clean now, isn't it? How did you get him to pick up his things?"

"I-what?" John stammered, entering the flat behind his self-invited guest. "I don't think-"

"Never mind" the man said, cutting him off. "So sorry John, I would love to stay and chat, but I really must speak with Sherlock. Where is he?"

A ringing silence fell across the flat.

"Ah . . . er, you do remember me, right? Or have I . . . OH!" The man jumped backwards, his hands flying to his already wild hair. "Right, right, new face, I keep forgetting." he muttered, running a hand across his chin. "Right!" he said again, straigtening his bowtie, "Sorry John, I ran into a spot of trouble since we last met, and, well . . . anyway, it's me, the Doctor!"

John had not moved an inch since the man's last question. After a moment of dead space the Doctor shifted uncomfortably. "Remember?" he prompted. "Scadrial? You and Sherlock helped me-oh I don't have time for this, John! Where is Sherlock, I really must speak with him. I need his outside opinion on something. Someone, rather."

"Is this some sort of joke?" John managed.

"What? No, why would this be funny? Listen John! I really must get back, I've left Amy alone with what may or may not be a Shifter, and I need Sherlock to help me tell whether its who it claims to be, now where is he?"

John just stared at him, trying to decide if this Doctor was as crazy as he sounded.

"Dead." He finally responded. "Sherlock's dead."

It was the Doctor's turn to be speechless, though not for long. Nothing could shut this man up. "What? When? How?"

"Jumped off a building." John muttered. "Where've you been the past month?"

"Jumped off a building . . . but—" he stopped abruptly, eyes widening. "John, quickly, what year is it?"

"2012," John answered flatly.

"_Twelve."_ The Doctor smacked himself in the forehead with what seemed an undue amount of force. "Blast it, the focus continium is still off! John, I am so _so_ terribly sorry. If you would do me a favor and forget I was ever here. Forget everything I've said, I'll just be off. Goodbye John, It was nice to meet you!" and with that the bizzare man fled down the stairs and out the front door before Watson could open his mouth.

John blinked hard a few times and slowly returned to his chair by the fireplace.

_What the hell did that mean? _


	2. Chapter 1

_Shut up Mrs. Hudson._ John thought. _Please._

" . . . really should answer your doorbell dear, especially for your sister. She doesn't just go away, you know. She sits out there and rings the bell every five . . . "

John wasn't listening. Day in and day out, everything was the same now. Even Mrs. Hudson nagged him about the same things every day_. Eat something dear, answer your bell dear, go find some friends dear._ But he had had friends before, and none of them were left. He wasn't going to make that mistake again anytime soon. Tonight he was out of toothpaste, and all he wanted to do right now was get out of his compulsively clean flat and go to the grocery store. Ella was urging him to go through the motions of normal life, insisting that eventually something would take meaning again. She was fooling herself. Nothing ever did, and nothing ever would.

Before he realized what he was doing he walked away from Mrs. Hudson mid-sentence. _That was rude,_ he realized. _I'll have to be sorry later._ He went straight to the curb and raised his hand to hail a cab.

The first one drove past him, already occupied. John remained where he was, hand in the air, blood flowing out of his arm until one finally stopped. "Where to, sir?" The driver asked. John's eyes flicked over the back of the man's head and dashboard. Went partying last night, he noted, needs to switch hand soaps, his is giving him a rash.

"Sir?"

"Oh, sorry. London Cemetery."

"You got it."

_Why did I say that?_ John thought. He opened his mouth to change his mind, then stopped. He hadn't visited Sherlock's grave since the day they buried him. It would be good to go again.

After a short ride, the cab pulled up at the gates to the cemetery. "You want me to take you in, Sir?" the cabbie asked.

"No thank you, I'll walk from here." John answered. He paid the cabbie and waited until the car was out of sight before turning and making his way up the hill in the dark to where the black stone waited under the tree.

"Hey Sherlock." He murmured when he reached the grave. "Sorry I've been so long. I've been . . . busy."

That was a lie. But Sherlock wasn't here with that laser beam gaze of his, a fact John was painfully aware of.

"Sherlock I . . . I just want to say I forgive you. I used to be angry at you for leaving, but . . . I dunno. I won't pretend to understand, but . . . I forgive you."

He stood in silence for a while, the night settling in around him. It was nearly pitch black in the graveyard.

"Well, uh. I should go, I need to . . . buy toothpaste. Yea. So . . . bye Sherlock. I promise I'll come back soon." He sniffed once and turned to leave. John walked through the shadowy cemetery, following the single streetlight he could see by the front gate. He was about 30 yards away when he thought he heard something behind him, like liquid splashing. He turned and looked behind him, but the light from the gate showed nothing out of the ordinary. John resumed walking.

Suddenly a sweet, terrifyingly familiar smell filled his nose just as a hand came out of nowhere pressing a thick cloth over his face. _Chloroform_, he thought frantically. Training kicking in, John held his breath and drove his elbow backward to where the man's side should be, only to meet no resistance as his assailant deftly avoided the blow. John felt the man's other arm wrap around his body, pinning his arms and preventing any further blows.

_Dammit,_ John thought, trying to step on the man's feet. He couldn't hold his breath for much longer. Already his arms were going numb, his view of the gate blurring. His gaze dropped and he had the sensation of falling forward, then . . . nothing.

* * *

><p>Two years later, earlier in the morning than was considered decent, two unusually tall men covered in mud and sequins walked the London streets back to the blue box they called home.<p>

"All in a day's work, eh Sherlock?" the Doctor grinned, slapping his companion on the shoulder.

"Of course Doctor." Sherlock replied with an easy smile. "Swoop in to save the world, fail miserably and get ourselves arrested, then pull a Houdini at the last second and everything's okay."

"Like I said, just an average day."

It was 2015, and both men were eager to get back to the Tardis's special multi-headed showers. Originally Sherlock had been hesitant about landing here, so close to when his own 'death', but the impending alien invasion had left them little choice. So he had settled for a sweatshirt with a hood and a box of cheap hair dye.

But still it made him nervous. If he ran into anyone . . . he might even be in this time stream himself. He still intended to go back to that day in September when he'd met the Doctor in a café and left everything behind, once he and the Doctor were done with this 'one trip'. He was nearly done disposing of Moriarty's web anyway, and how could he resist running away with a 900-year old alien in a time machine? The Doctor had promised he could take him back to that same week, he could finish what he started, and then go home to John.

_John . . ._

Sherlock felt a guilty pull in his stomach. He hardly thought of John anymore. Traveling with the Doctor was a full-time gig and didn't leave much time for dwelling on the past.

"I still can't believe you were right about that professor!" said the Doctor, interrupting his melancholy thoughts. "How did you know he was an alien?"

"It was the way he held his fork." Sherlock responded. "Like he'd never seen one before."

"Ah, the fork! Yes, aliens can never get the eating habits just right. I mean, you lot practice them three times a day, you've got it down to a science! How's a guy like me supposed to pick it up in an afternoon? I remember one time Martha and I went to Australia . . . "

Sherlock tuned the Doctor out, watching a newsboy changing the papers in the nearby machine. _Must be nearly 4:30 then._ He thought. He was about to look away when the headline caught his eye.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES PROVEN INNOCENT**

Sherlock would've sworn his heart stopped in his chest. Veering away from the still-babbling Doctor, he ran to the dispenser and jerked it open. Breathing quickly, he began to read:

_Nearly three years after the famed detective killed himself by jumping from the roof of Bart's hospital in London, shocking new evidence in the case has come to light. Last Tuesday morning Scotland Yard received an anonymous tip on the location of Sebastian Moran, the known hit man wanted for the murder of Detective Inspector Ian Tanner. _

_When officers arrived at the scene to arrest Moran, the suspect resisted and was killed by police. In the subsequent search of the building officials recovered certain documents that indicated Holmes's innocence, showing the methods by which one James Moriarty rewrote his identity, creating the name 'Richard Brook' and going public with the story that Holmes had not solved the many crimes he claimed to, but had in fact committed them himself. Moriarty claimed he was only an actor, hired by Holmes to play himself, the so called 'Napoleon of Crime'. (Read a full recap of the case on page A3.)_

_This new evidence proves without doubt that James Moriarty was entirely who Sherlock Holmes claimed he was, and the character of 'Richard Brook' was entirely fabricated. The fall from Bart's roof no longer stands as a cornered man's way out, but Holmes's way of escaping a world that no longer believed in him. _

Sherlock couldn't move. Moriarty had kept evidence? He would not have thought him that sloppy. If it had been him, he would have destroyed any trace of his scheme, making it untraceable.

But this meant . . .

Even after disposing of Moriarty's cobwebs, Sherlock had never expected to be able to return to his old life. Reveal himself to his friends, yes, but he would never be "Sherlock Holmes; Consulting Detective" again. Now he could. He could show himself to the world and not fear arrest. And John . . .

"Sherlock?" The Doctor had finally realized his companion wasn't with him. "What are you doing?"

"Come and see this!" he called out, smiling broadly. But then his eye caught another paragraph near the bottom of the page:

_The development in the case has prompted Scotland Yard to delve deeper into the disappearance of John H. Watson, Holmes's associate and friend. Watson disappeared two years ago after leaving his flat. The Yard still has no new leads as to his whereabouts. He is presumed dead. _

Sherlock's heart froze for a second time this morning.

"What have you found?" The Doctor asked.

Sherlock handed him the paper. "We need to make a trip."


	3. Chapter 2

John surfaced in a darkened room. There was some sort of light source on a table to his left, but he couldn't make it out through his still blurred-vision. He attempted to move and found his arms tied behind his back. He blinked and tugged at his bonds, only to be met with a swirl of dizziness. Struggling not to throw up, John hung his head and stared at his lap.

"Boss, he's awake."

John looked up again just as a tall, blonde man with a high-tech sniper rifle over one shoulder stepped into his field of vision.

_Oh no . . ._ John's stomach sunk as he recognized his captor. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man and gun for hire. One of the most ruthless, most capable minds in the city now that London had lost its two geniuses.

"Doctor Watson, so good of you to join us," Moran said in a low, smooth voice. "Last time I saw you, it was down the barrel of a rifle."

"What do you want, Moran?" John said flatly, not taking his eyes off the man.

"I have a question I need to ask you, Dr. Watson. Just one question. Answer me truthfully and you can go home."

John highly doubted that.

* * *

><p>The Tardis may have been bigger on the inside, but at that moment, it could not have been big enough. Sherlock Holmes stormed around the console room, kicking things and pulling wires, waiting.<p>

_I hate waiting._

They were parked in 2013, two days after John 's disappearance, just around the corner from 221b. The Doctor had taken the psychic paper and gone to speak to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had rinsed the dye from his hair and donned his usual clothes, now there was nothing left to do but wait.

So he paced. Usually he was content to lie still, letting his mind to the running, but today his nervous energy had swelled far beyond its normal bounds.

_John. _

What had happened? John had vanished around a week after Sherlock had gone off with the Doctor. Had he been kidnapped? By who? Moriarty's web was all but destroyed at this point, he had gotten rid of everyone important. Unless . . .

_Oh!_

He spun on his heel, snatching up the newspaper. _Of course, how could I have missed it?_

" . . . _an anonymous tip on the location of Sebastian Moran . . . "_

But Sherlock had _killed_ Moran six months ago. Or, he thought he had. _I guess Sebastian has a few tricks of his own_, he thought grimly.

Just then there was a rattle in the Tardis lock. The door swung open and the Doctor stepped inside. "No luck Sherlock." He said. "'He took a cab,' that's all she knew."

"He was kidnapped, Doctor, I'm sure of it." Sherlock said, looking up from the paper. "And I think I know by whom."

* * *

><p>"It's been nearly four years now, I believe." Moran continued, turning away from John.<p>

"Since what?" John asked after a minute.

"Since you needed this."

The sniper turned back around, and this time he held in his hands a long, slender metal pole with a plastic hook at the end. A pole John was very familiar with indeed.

"Where did you get that?" he said softly.

"Ella was more than helpful." Sebastian grinned, twirling the cane in his hands like a baton.

"What have you done to her?"

"Nothing that won't grow back. Well, mostly."

"You said you had a question for me. What?"

"Ah yes." Moran held the cane in front of him, tapping it on his chin as he walked past John's chair. "The question."

John sat perfectly still, waiting. _Get on with it,_ he thought.

"It's a bit of an odd question, you see. One some people think is completely obvious. But you and I know it's a bit more complicated, don't we."

"What. Question?"

Moran stopped his pacing and spun to face him.

"Where can I find Sherlock Holmes?"

* * *

><p>"We need to know where he went." Sherlock said, throwing the paper down and resuming his pacing. "What else did she say?"<p>

"Only that he looked a bit upset."

"Upset, upset." He reversed direction, pacing counter clockwise around the controls. "Where would he go? He could have gone shopping, but he never does the shopping that late at night. Maybe a girlfriend's, but if he'd had one at the time she would have been in the case recap, romantic attachments are always the first suspects." He stopped walking, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

An odd look crossed the Doctor's face. He reached up and pulled the monitor down, looking at something on the screen intently.

"Sherlock, what day did you die?" he asked.

"What?"

"The day you jumped, what was the date?"

"September 13, 2012, why?"

The Doctor didn't say anything for a moment. Then he turned to face the detective.

"It's been exactly a year, Sherlock."

"So?"

"So _think_. You've been dead a full year. If it was John, where would you go?"

* * *

><p>John was utterly speechless for a second. "What?"<p>

Faster than John's eyes could follow, Moran whipped the hand holding John's cane back and swung it around, striking John hard on the side of the face.

"Where is he John?" he said again, still perfectly calm.

"Dead," John spat, already feeling the side of his face swelling.

Moran laughed, his head falling backward. "The rest of the world may be stupid enough to fall for your little trick, John, but not me! My people have been dropping like _flies_ this past year and only one person could be behind that."

He was crazy! Crazier than his dead boss! Sherlock was dead, they had all seen it. Seen him fall, seen him lying there, blood pooling on the sidewalk . . .

Moran stepped back and crouched down in front of him. "I know you John. I know how devastatingly loyal you can be. But think about it, really _think _for a minute. And tell me: where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"London cemetery, six feet under."

"NO!" Moran sprang forward across the floor and slammed the cane into the knob of bone on the side of John's ankle.

John gasped as the spike of pain flashed across his body. "Sherlock is _dead!_" he cried, "I told you!"

"And I told you"—Moran punched him across the face—"not to lie to me!" He punched him again.

* * *

><p>The Doctor watched his companion curiously. Sherlock had mentioned this John from time to time, but it wasn't until know, with his life in danger, that the Doctor could see how much Sherlock really cared for his friend. He was unusually quiet and fidgety, never still for more than a second.<p>

The detective and the Doctor raced about the heart of the Tardis in perfect sync, turning dials and flipping toggles, aiming for the London cemetery on the night of September 13, 2013. The Tardis spun through the vortex, occasionally jolting them sideways into the railings or each other, but Sherlock always returned straight to the controls, anxious to get to John.

There was the usual pleasant wheezing, and then a firm _thunk_ as the ship landed. Without hesitation Sherlock wrenched open the door and ran out into the chilly night, the Doctor on his tail.

There was no one in sight. The London Cemetery was dark and silent, the frost crackling under their feet.

"We've missed them." Sherlock said softly. "They aren't here."

The Doctor pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and bent to inspect the grass. The uniform frost pattern was broken in several places.

"But they were. Look at this."

Sherlock bent down beside him, his keen eyes sweeping over the lawn. _Footprints_, he knew immediately. Size 8 for John, and a size 10 he didn't know.

"John came in this way," he said softly, "stood here for a minute." Sherlock paused, the memory of the last time he'd seen John here surfacing. "Then when he went to leave, this other man followed him and attacked him . . . here!"

The Doctor watched his companion pacing in front of his own headstone. The Time Lord was silent, letting Sherlock's brilliant mind sort everything out. The detective followed the second set of prints backwards to a spot behind a nearby tree.

"Moran figured it out, Doctor, just like you did. He knew John would come, and he waited for him. Here, look! There's no frost, and the grass is all trampled. Must have waited all day. It's not Sebastian's style to wait around though, and this isn't his shoe size . . . so he had an accomplice." Sherlock dropped to the ground and took a long sniff at the trampled spot under the tree. "And he spilled the chloroform, its frozen on the grass." He stood motionless, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly, mind whirling.

And then it clicked. He spun back to face the Doctor, his face alight.

"I know where John is."

* * *

><p>John's head was spinning. Blood dripped down his face, and he couldn't hear out of his left ear.<p>

"I have to say, John," Moran said, wiping blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief, "most men would have saved themselves and told me what I want to know by now. I'm impressed by your devotion. However," he set the cloth down and pulled a small knife out of the top drawer of the desk.

" . . . I am getting a little frustrated."

He bent forward, grasping the back of John's chair. Moran leaned in until his face was just inches away. John squirmed weakly, blood stinging his eye.

"Thing is, John, you're a smart guy. So you probably already know that I will find Sherlock Holmes, even if you won't tell me." John felt the tip of the knife hovering on the top of his knee.

"Because what do you think he will do when he sees your mutilated body on the telly?" The knife bit in, ever so slightly. John hissed, arching his back.

"He'll come after me, that's what." The blade felt hot, cutting deeper into the sensitive nerves and tendons holding his kneecap in place. John's breath rushed out through his clenched teeth. He saw stars.

" . . . and I'll be ready."

All at once a hollow whooshing noise filled the room, growing louder and louder. Moran spun around and John screamed as the knife was jerked out of his leg.

The far corner of the room was lit with a brilliant blue-white glow, about 10 feet off the ground. Underneath it there seemed to be an old fashioned police box that was _appearing out of thin air._ John would have thought he was hallucinating, but clearly Moran could see the thing too. The assassin just stood there, staring at it, not moving.

The door of the box flew open almost before it was completely there, and two men came running out. Moran stabbed at the nearest one, a skinny man in a brown suit, who jumped backward out of the way.

But John had eyes only for the second figure, a man John knew very well indeed. He leapt from the door of the blue box, dark coat flying, and punched Moran's bulky accomplice across the face.

No. No it couldn't be. This man was, as he had repeatedly told Moran,_ dead. _

Yet here he was.

John watched blearily as his rescuers dispatched Moran and his associate. The dark one bent over John's chair, speaking quickly in a low voice. He tried to listen, he really did, he knew it was important, but his ears didn't seem to be working right.

John could feel the blood running down his leg.

_Running._ He'd done a lot of running this year.

The blood. His sock was soaked in it. He hated wet socks.

_Blood._

So much blood.

_Sherlock. _

John blacked out.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Fractured external malleolus, broken nose, mild blood loss, and eight stiches in his left temple_, the Doctor thought to himself. John Watson had been through much worse. The ex-medic was sleeping at the moment, lying in a huge four poster bed in one of the Tardis's many guestrooms. It was nearly three hours since they'd brought him here, and Sherlock's worrying was reaching audible levels again.

The Doctor stood in the doorway, watching the consulting detective nervously run his fingers back and forth against the arm of his chair.

"He's not going to wake up any time soon, Sherlock. You should go and clean up. When he does come round, do you want him to see you like this?"

Sherlock had yet to leave John's side, even to change his clothes. He was spattered with blood from when he had punched Moran in the warehouse, and there was a long tear in the shoulder of his collared shirt. He flicked a glance down and shook his head. "John's seen worse."

"Right now it's not John I'm worried about. I'll sit with him, you go get some air."

"No."

The Doctor sighed and held out his hands for their usual manner of resolving the inevitable stalemates of two geniuses in a time machine (one in a fist atop the other), but Sherlock wouldn't even look at him.

"Fine!" the Time Lord sighed, kicking the detective's chair. He pulled a scroll from his suit pocket and took the seat on the other side of John's bed.

Within five minutes the detective was pacing. Sherlock Holmes, heralded for centuries as the most brilliant mind of his age, consultant to Scotland Yard, companion to the Doctor, and completely incapable of sitting still. He walked the length of the room a few times, tried to sit again, failed, and ended up walking in circles around the bed. The Doctor took a deep breath and tried to remember why he so enjoyed having this man on his Tardis.

Nearly two hours trickled by like this, and then John stirred.

Sherlock froze, standing at the corner of the bed behind John's head. He glanced at the Doctor, who gave him an encouraging smile, then turned his attention back to the medic.

John blinked a few times and tried to sit up. He hissed in pain and the Doctor gently pushed him back to the mattress.

"Where . . . where am I?"

"You're safe."

"Moran . . . "

"Don't worry, we've taken care of him."

Indeed they had. While Sherlock had bandaged John's wounds, the Doctor had put the blue police box to use as well, a police box, and dialed an anonymous tip to a slightly futuristic Scotland Yard.

"Your friend . . . the other man who was with you . . . who is he?"

The Doctor took a deep breath and looked up to where Sherlock stood concealed. The detective looked even paler than normal. He nodded, and Sherlock stepped forward into the light.

It was clear from his face that John was tempted to pass out again.

For a long moment the two friends just stared at each other. Then the Doctor licked his lips and stood up. "I'll just ah, leave you to it," he said, and left.

With the Time Lord's exit, the room fell into silence again. Sherlock swallowed nervously.

"Morning," he said softly.

John was just looking at him, blinking rapidly.

"It's really me, John." _Please say something._

"I . . . I thought I was seeing things." John whispered.

Sherlock sighed in relief. "A blue police box appears out of nowhere, your dead colleague runs out, and your first assumption is that you're hallucinating? You're slipping, John."

The doctor laughed hoarsely, and Sherlock smiled. "But _how_, Sherlock?" he asked. "You were _dead._ I saw you fall, I took your pulse, there was nothing!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat down in the chair. He had hoped to put this off a little longer, but part of him had known John would cut straight to the chase.

"I'm alive thanks to Molly Hooper." He said quietly. "As soon as I figured out Moriarty's plan I knew that it would end with my death. My suicide. He wouldn't rest until I was completely destroyed. So I took steps to provide a way out. I would play dumb and allow Moriarty to believe he had me cornered, when in reality I would have my own escape route already in place. But to make the world believe I was dead, I would need help."

"So I went to someone I knew I could trust. Someone who knows her way around dead bodies."

"Molly."

"Yes. She and I hid an inflatable stunt bag under a truck which we parked in front of the hospital. Upon receiving my text, she pulled it out and I jumped. Then she covered me with blood I'd given her earlier, and drove away with the evidence."

"But I felt your arm!"

"A simple magic trick. Here," Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a small rubber ball. He slipped it up his sleeve and held it tightly in the crook of his elbow. "Now feel"

John slowly reached forward and laid a finger on his wrist. "No pulse." He whispered.

"Just a trick, John."

"But why? Why jump in the first place? They found Moriarty's body on the roof—he died before you did. Why didn't you just walk away?"

Sherlock paused, thinking. How do you tell your best friend you died for them?

"Remember when we were at the pool? And you offered to . . . blow up Moriarty?"

"Course," John said. "But then—" his eyes widened in realization, "there was a sniper."

"Three." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Three snipers. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade."

"So . . . if you hadn't jumped . . . "

"Everyone I cared about would die, yes."

A long silence fell between them.

"Well, ah" John coughed. "Then . . . what was that box thing? How did you make it appear like that?"

"The box is called the Tardis. Time and relative dimension in space. You're inside it now."

John looked around at his surroundings, obviously confused. "It's bigger on the inside." Sherlock added helpfully. "There's no point in going anywhere with you injured, so we're parked at the moment. Someplace in the great depression I think."

"Wait, wait. Go back." John was shaking his head. "Did you say time machine?"

"Space too. Anywhere and anywhen you want. Oh, the things I've seen, John! You can't even imagine . . ."

"And who was that other man?"

"He's the Doctor."

"Doctor who?"

Sherlock chuckled at the ever-present question. "Just the Doctor. This is his ship."

"Ship." John repeated, rubbing his hair. "That little blue box is a spaceship?"

"Yes, John, do try to keep up. We're inside the Tardis, a time machine that belongs to a 900-year old alien, and right now we're parked inside—"

"I think I met someone like him."

"Can't have, he's the last of his species. They're all dead."

"He came to Baker Street about—wait, species?"

Sherlock was picking a twig from his hair and didn't answer.

Slightly shaken, John blinked and continued. "Anyway, about a year ago this man came to the door while Mrs. Hudson was out. He wanted to speak to you, said he needed your help with something. When I told him you were dead he shouted something about being early and left. And he told me his name was the Doctor."

Sherlock leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "What did he look like?"

"Tall, brown hair, bowtie."

"Bowtie?"

The detective closed his eyes and mentally flipped through all ten of the Doctor's faces. None of them matched.

"What else did he say?"

"Umm . . . he mentioned a girl named Amy, and something called 'Scadriel'"

_Scadriel._ Sherlock searched his brain and found nothing. _Unless . . . Yes, that fits._

"John, I think the Doctor you met was from the future. His future. You can't let him know you've seen him, it could disrupt all our time streams."

John didn't know what a time stream was, but his brain was still on overload from everything he'd learned today and decided not to ask.

"So . . . what happens now?"

Sherlock looked at him, bright blue eyes cutting straight to the heart of the question. "You heal." The detective said softly.

"And then what?"

His friend smiled, that maniac light John had missed so much filling his eyes.

"Who knows?"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John had expected to spend the usual six-to-eight-week recovery period in the usual cast-then-boot-then-crutches.

But he should have known better. What with Sherlock back from the dead, an alien in the next room, and the fact that he was on board a time machine that liked to change which corridor let out where ("Oh yea, she does that—If she's bored or wants to get my attention."), he probably should have guessed something would show up to get him back on his feet. Be it the Doctor, practically force-feeding him some kind of green liquid he claimed would help his bones knit faster, or Sherlock, pacing endlessly round and round the Tardis, obviously not used to being parked this long.

With the help of the Doctor's mysterious bone-knitting beverage, and a crutch he'd hoped to never see again, John was back on his feet within the week. It was a miracle, impossibly fast. But sociopaths in a time machine don't like to wait around, and Sherlock still said "Finally!" when the Doctor announced John was well enough for a trip.

"Where to, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, grinning like an idiot as John limped up the ramp to the consol.

"Well, let's see what Johnny thinks?" he replied. "All of time and space, any planet, any time, where do you wanna go?"

John's mind had been racing on the matter since Sherlock had explained exactly what this box could do, and he had a long list of things he wanted to see.

"What was that one you were telling me about, Sherlock? The one with the constant quadruple rainbow?"

"Aaaah, Chanabeles!" the Doctor cried. "Brilliant world! Off we go!" He leaned across the console, hauled on a lever, and the Tardis went spinning off into space.

Almost immediately there was a tremendous BANG and all three of them were thrown to the left. John's crutch went flying and he cried out as his bad knee struck the floor. The Tardis was shuddering, Sherlock was shouting, and the Doctor was practically lying on the controls, each appendage occupied in holding something down or flipping something or frantically pushing buttons.

Another few seconds and with one last, jarring impact, the ship fell still.

John clenched his teeth and got to his feet, holding onto the console for support. "I take it that wasn't supposed to happen?"

"No." the Doctor replied, pulling out a pair of thin glasses and moving to inspect the monitor. "Not sure what that was."

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, appearing at John's elbow and holding out his crutch.

"A planet called Scadriel." He said, tapping the screen. "Not a place I normally visit, too depressing. What with the ash and all."

Sherlock and John looked at each other. Scadriel. The name had reappeared sooner than they'd thought.

_He said we helped him,_ John thought. _Guess we just need to be ready for anything._

"Well, something brought us here—let's have a look!" The Doctor whipped off his glasses and headed for the door.

"Uh, wait." John said as they were almost outside. "We're on another world. Won't our clothes stick out?"

The Doctor looked them over, Sherlock in his usual long dark coat and John in blue jeans and a sweater.

"Mine and Sherlock's no. But you . . . you better come with me."

* * *

><p>"Stop it."<p>

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it, I know that face, stop it."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Truth was, Sherlock thought John cut quite a figure in the bottle-green tailcoat and vest the Doctor had found for him. Not that he wasn't laughing a little. Mostly at John's barely internal complaints.

"Right!" The Doctor cried, coming around to join them by the door. "Any questions? Say no. None? Then let's go!" Spinning around, he pulled open the Tardis doors and the three men stepped out onto the streets of Scadriel.

The Doctor had called it a depressing world. That was a bit of an understatement. The city around them was dark and grimy, everything stained black by the near-constant ashfall.

"Their planet suffered a cataclysmic event about a thousand years ago that knocked it too close to the sun." the Doctor had explained while John tried on different suits. "If it weren't for the constant cloud cover from the nearby volcano the whole planet would roast."

"So the people on this world, they're humans?" John had asked.

"Almost. They followed the same evolutionary pathway down to about the last million years. Now there are slight differences—height, lungs, and of course the metals."

"Metals?"

"Yes. They only discovered the phenomenon in the last millennium, but who knows how long the potential's been there. This world has more metallic ore than Earth, and it's always been an important part of the culture. And genetics, apparently. Certain individuals in the population have this . . . ability. They can . . . ingest different kinds of metal and then burn it in their stomachs. And depending on the alloy it gives them certain powers."

"Like?"

"Manipulating other's emotions, enhancing physical abilities. It's very rare outside the nobility."

John had started to shake his head in disbelief, but then he looked around at the immense wardrobe filled with clothes from every era on every planet, and stopped short.

Now they were walking along a narrow cobblestone street, the dark shapes of beggars huddled in every corner. Sherlock and the Doctor were slightly ahead, talking rapidly back and forth. John trailed slightly behind the two geniuses, his crutch catching in the rough stones of the road. His eyes followed a child crouched in the shadows. She was skinnier than he would have thought possible and still be alive.

And she wasn't alone. John didn't think he'd seen one well-fed person since they'd arrived. As they emerged onto a main road he sped up to walk next to the Doctor.

"Why is it like this?" he asked. "These people have nothing."

"It's their government." The Doctor replied, stone-faced. "Totalitarian. Brutal dictatorship and a sever class difference."

"What can we do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing." John shot back. "The children are starving and we can't do anything?"

"No John." Sherlock interjected. "We try not to interfere in history. Visit and observe only."

"Exactly. I know it's hard, but we can't go meddling in big events. And don't worry about the Lord Ruler. He's due to be overthrown in oh, seven years?"

"But—"

"Doctor." Sherlock said suddenly, cutting him off. "Why don't we skip this and just go straight to the old friend you've brought us here to see?"

"What?" John said, taken aback.

The Doctor, however, was looking at Sherlock with a small smile on his face. "How did you know?" He asked. "I was very careful this time."

"Please." Sherlock laughed. "You never initiate take-off by pulling that lever if you have time. Makes it unnecessarily rough. And I saw you loosen the cap on the stabilizers."

"You threw us around to disguise the fact that we were coming here instead of Chanabeles." John realized.

"Also this." Sherlock pulled a small two-fold paper out of his pocket and held it open.

_I need your help. Calling in that favor you owe me. Scadriel, 966-2-4. _

_-H._

"You—I told you to stop doing that!" The Doctor cried, snatching the paper back from Sherlock. "Pick-pocketing is very rude!"

Sherlock just smiled, knowing he'd won.

The Doctor sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine, let's go!" and he strode away down a side street to their left.

Sherlock winked at John and they set off after him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong>

**So I was going to explain Sherlock's deduction from part 2 in here (how he knew where to find John) but I couldn't fit it into the conversation. So I decided that the first person to figure it out and put the answer in my tumblr ask box (.com/ask) I will write them a one-shot story request. Sherlock, Supernatural, Doctor Who, or any crossovers therein. If you want another fandom just let me know and if I know it I'll do it.**

**Hopefully I'm as smart as I think I am and someone can figure it out . . . if no one can I'll still put the answer in the AN of part 5.**

**Good luck!**


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The skinny Time Lord led them to the other end of the city, weaving across several blocks, sometimes on main roads, more often in small, convoluted alleyways. They had walked for around twenty minutes when the Doctor stopped abruptly in front of a nondescript doorway. Without hesitating, he raised his hand and knocked twice. The building was tall and narrow, the third story having been tacked on after the first two were already built. The windows were dark, shrouded in what seemed an undue amount of ash. _Put there to hide the interior,_ Sherlock thought.

"So, Doctor," the detective began. "You've been awfully quiet. Who are we here to meet?"

The Doctor was silent for a minute. Then, "His name is Hoid. And he usually—answers his door!" he said, banging on the wood again. This time it was answered by a man in his early thirties. He was tall for this world, around six foot, with pale blonde hair hanging around his ears. Sherlock's icy eyes swept over him, taking in the thick bags under his eyes, the bow to his knees, and the slight prune on the fingers of his right hand. _Hasn't slept in two, three days, been sitting a lot, unusual for a man of his station. The wetness of his hand and nowhere else on his body . . . someone he cares about is sick. _

The Doctor blinked. He had, apparently, been expecting someone else.

"We're, ah, here for Hoid. Is he—"

"He's upstairs." The man replied. His voice sounded as if it hadn't seen much use lately.

They stood motionless for a second as the man remained standing where he was, blocking the narrow doorway. "Ah, so can we . . . .?" The Doctor began awkwardly.

"Oh, yes." The man blinked and moved aside to let them through. He seemed disoriented, as if his thoughts had completely disconnected from one another, spinning uselessly in circles.

The Doctor led the way inside, Sherlock on his heels. As he passed the man in the door, he heard John ask the man his name in the kind, soothing tone he reserved for his patients. Once again it took the stranger a second to answer.

"Kelsier" he finally replied.

The interior of the building was filled with a strange smell. Must and mold, _expected from a building as old as this_, antiseptic, _seems out of place in this time period_, and something else, faintly, on the edge of the senses. _What is that?_

The Doctor and Sherlock vaulted up the stairs, John and Kelsier following at a slower pace. Reaching the small landing at the top, the Doctor knocked once, then opened the door without waiting. Instantly the unidentified smell grew stronger, as did the antiseptic.

The room was long, with four beds along the right wall. Three were currently occupied, the covers on the fourth almost entirely on the floor. Kelsier went immediately to the nearest bed and took a seat on the empty one beside it, reaching out to its occupant, a young woman with long dark hair. _His wife, no, fiancée._ A man in a grey shirt and a knee-length apron stood bending over the man in the farthest bed. The stranger appeared to be about average height, with grey-brown hair, and wrinkles that only appeared when he smiled. His nose was flat, but narrow, with eyes that slanted down on the outside. _Unmistakably a physician._

"Ah, Doctor. Right on time, for once," he said with a smile. "And who are your companions? Don't believe I've met this batch."

The Doctor smiled hugely. He always got a kick out of introducing Sherlock, even if no one ever recognized the name. "Hoid, my friend," he began, confirming the stranger's identity, "it is my pleasure to introduce to you _Sherlock Holmes_ and _Doctor John Watson_."

Hoid's eyebrows lifted. "_The_ Sherlock Holmes?" he crossed the length of the floor to stand directly in front of Sherlock. He stood there for a second, looking them over. Then he blinked twice and turned to the Doctor. "Where's the hat?"

John immediately busted up laughing. Sherlock sniffed. "I see you've heard of us."

"Yes." Said the Doctor, stifling his own laughter. "Anyone who's been to your world has." He stepped forward and shook Hoid's hand enthusiastically. "You're looking well! I like this face!"

"Glad someone does." Hoid replied dryly. "It's too . . . faded for my taste."

John was finally resurfacing from his fit. "So, wait, is he like you then?" he asked the Doctor. "Change his face and all?"

"You mean a Time Lord? No. Hoid is . . . one of a kind. Though he has traveled rather extensively."

"And you've been to Earth." Sherlock stated.

"As have you." Hoid replied sarcastically.

"Alright boys, play nice." The Doctor said, cutting in before things escalated. "Hoid, you said you needed my help, and I presume these sick individuals have something to do with it?"

"Brilliant deduction, Doctor." Sherlock murmured. John shushed him.

"Yes." Hoid said with a last glance at Sherlock. "There has been a small outbreak in the last several days of a rather unusual disease. Those affected first became feverish and nauseous, nothing outside of an ordinary flu. However, after a few days they become mentally disoriented, and they get a skin discoloration like nothing I've ever seen. Here," He led them to the last bed, the one he had been examining when they first came in. A man about John's age lay on the mattress, face flushed and streaked with sweat. His eyes were shut and his lips twitched as if he were about to speak. Creeping up the sides of his neck and face, following the path of the most prominent veins, was a dark reddish brown color, highlighted with bits of green and white. It appeared to be flaking off in places.

"Hm." The Doctor bent over and touched one of the worst places, over the man's jugular. The man flinched away from the contact. "It almost—"

Without warning, a series of bangs and a great CRASH echoed from the upstairs room, accompanied by what sounded vaguely like a human scream.

"What was _that?_" John asked, staring at the ceiling. Hoid ignored it, didn't even look up.

"But even with all that, I still thought it was just some weird disease, I could either cure it, or it would eventually blow over."

"But then?" Sherlock asked, still looking at the boards above him. As if on cue, another loud _thump _echoed through the building from the upstairs flat.

"Then that."

"But what is it?" John repeated, gripping his cane tightly.

"I'll show you. Come on."

Hoid walked across the room, leading them past the other two sick occupants, a teenage boy, and the woman Kelsier sat with.

The four men filed out onto the landing and up the stairs to the final floor. On the uppermost landing they found the door to the flat had been boarded shut, thick square nails driven through the wall from the outside. A small hinged window had been left cut through the top. Hoid stopped in front of the door and turned to face them.

"My first patient came to me about two weeks ago. It's through his case I've been able to find the others. So far they've all followed the exact same path of symptoms he did."

"Where is this patient now?" The Doctor asked, already knowing the answer.

"In here."

Hoid grabbed the handle of the small window and pulled it open.

A man's face was staring back at them.

He stood directly on the other side of the door, looking at them through the slot. His face was completely covered in the reddish discoloration, eyes were wider than should be possible. The veins in his eyes were silver, as were his pupils, which were dilated to the max.

The man raised his hands and slipped his fingers through the slot in the door. (John was reminded of Lord of the Rings, the first time Frodo sees Gollum in the caves, peeking through the metal bars, reflective eyes gleaming in that same unseeing way.)

"He always does this." Hoid said quietly. "We hear him breaking things and yelling, like he did when he turned yesterday. But whenever I come up he's just—standing there. Looking at me."

"Does he ever speak?" The Doctor asked, leaning closer to the little window than was probably safe.

"Never coherently." Hoid answered. "Usually just random words: crash, join, lightning . . . "

Slowly, the Doctor reached out a finger and touched one of the man's own. All of a sudden, the man thrust his whole hand through the window, trying to grab hold of the Doctor. When he did not succeed—the Time Lord leapt out of the way just in time—the man began clawing frantically at the wood of the door, trying to rip the obstruction away, yelling disjointedly.

Hoid jumped forward to wrestle the window closed. He leaned against the wall when he'd finished, breathing heavily. "He tried to rip my throat out yesterday." He panted.

"And if the others are following the same pattern . . . " The Doctor mused, thinking aloud.

"Exactly. That's when I decided to call for you. At the rate their progressing, if we don't fix this we'll have four of these maniacs on our hands by the end of the week."

"Is there any connection between the victims?" the Doctor asked.

"Nothing obvious. Three Tineyes, one Thug, one brother-sister pair . . . nothing that connects all of them."

"What's a Tineye?" John asked. Sherlock had been wondering the same thing.

"Someone who burns tin." The Doctor explained. "Heightens the senses. A Thug is pewter, which enhances physical strength. Nothing? Really? No overarching thread to all of them?"

"Not that I could see."

Sherlock was still looking at the window in the door. "Let me see him again." He said suddenly. "I need to check something."

"You sure, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes, John, I'm sure. Just open the door, I need to get a better look."

Hoid sighed and hesitantly opened the small window again.

It was exactly the same as before. The man's eyes gleaming out at them like a cat's in a mirror. After the same amount of time he slipped his fingers out over the door again.

"Excellent." Sherlock breathed and took a step closer.

"Sherlock—" John grabbed his arm, trying to keep him back. The detective easily shrugged him off and leaned even closer, eyes honing in on the man's twitching fingers. The discoloration apparently weakened the skin; it had already torn through and was bleeding in several places. The liquid appeared red, like normal human blood, except where it caught the light. The blood dripping from the man's fingers reflected silver, exactly the same as his eyes.

"Metal." Sherlock whispered.

"What?" Hoid asked.

"Get me a sample of this man's blood."

**AN:**

**Oh gosh guys I'm so sorry this took forever to get posted. Finals. I blame finals. **

**If you haven't gathered, Scadriel is a world from a different book—****Mistborn****, by Brandon Sanderson. I'm trying really hard to make sure it still makes sense to anyone who hasn't read them though. You **_**should**_** read them, but that's beside the point. **

**Okay, so I got 0 messages about Sherlock's deduction. Conclusion, I'm not as smart as I thought. But here's the explanation: he knew that John had been ambushed in the graveyard by the man waiting behind the tree. He found Chloroform frozen on the grass—the man had spilled the bottle as he poured it out, leaving only enough to take John out for a short time. Therefore, he had to get John somewhere secure before he woke up—somewhere within 8-10 minutes, and where no one would hear him scream. Sherlock ran his mental map of the city and found an abandoned church that fit all the requirements. And that's where they went. **

**Anyway, things pick up a bit here, and even more so in the next chapter. Hope you are enjoying it! **


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 **

It was infused with metal.

The man's blood was running thick with tin, the metal he had burned before he fell sick. Sherlock didn't have samples from the other three victims yet, but this one had told him quite a lot by itself.

He was sitting in the cellar of Hoid's building, where the man kept items that were too useful to get rid of, but too conspicuous to have in the open in this time and place, such as the microscope he was currently peering down. The thing was far more advanced than any that existed in his time, allowing him to see right into the molecular structure of the sample. John was upstairs with the Doctor, trying to piece together a timeline on the victims.

_Somehow his body stopped burning the tin when he consciously told it to,_ Sherlock thought, _and it built up in his blood stream to near toxic levels._ But then what? He just went crazy? Last he'd checked, tin poisoning didn't have any behavioral implications.

Sherlock scrolled the list of symptoms in his head. _Gastrointestinal cramps, vomiting, nausea, diarrhea . . ._ all describing the patients upstairs. But that still left the erratic behavior and the skin discoloration. He had several flakes of that as well, sitting beside the vial of blood. Turning sideways in his chair, Sherlock bent over the petri dish, inspecting the rusty flakes they'd pulled off the man's skin.

Wait . . . _rust?_

Sherlock spun quickly to the microscope and slide the flakes underneath. His wayward thought had been correct—the man's skin was rusted through. _But how can human flesh rust? What could do that?_

His thought train was interrupted by a small crash to his right. The tube of the man's blood had rolled over the edge of the table and shattered on the floor. Odd, he'd been sure he'd set it upright, and a good ways from the edge. He looked away from the mess. He'd already gotten what he needed from the sample anyway.

This rust . . . it didn't make any kind of sense. The man's body was chalk full of tin, yes, but tin didn't rust, that was why it was so commonly used to preserve food. Maybe there was some kind of—

"Any luck?" The door across the table swung open, John's voice filling the room. Not waiting for the detective to respond, John continued. "Looks like the brother and sister got sick about the same time. Kelsier says his fiancé just couldn't get out of bed one morning and her brother collapsed later that day. The other man was brought—" his voice cut off sharply " . . . Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Sherlock, look at the floor." John's voice had gone hard and dangerous, like there was a snake in the room. Sherlock looked up from the microscope and froze. There _was_ a snake in the room—sort of.

The small puddle of blood lay where the vial had fallen, but it no longer had the smooth, metallic texture that had caught his eye. About a foot away, a shining strip of liquid metal was moving across the floor. It couldn't have been more than three inches long, completely smooth from end to end, and slithering back and forth toward the back wall.

Sherlock thought very fast. Whatever this thing was, it had managed to move the glass vial. They would need something sturdier to contain it.

"John." He said, not taking his eyes off the undulating creature on the floor. "There's a wooden box on the shelf behind you. Throw it to me."

Sherlock watched the bright strip of metal's slow progress to escaping into the wall, listening as John dumped out the small box's contents and tossed it across the room. Catching it easily, the detective crept forward and crouched beside the thing. Slowly, carefully, he extended the box to hover over the metal snake, ready to slam it down in three . . . two . . .

One. The thing shot to the right just as Sherlock pressed the box down, shockingly fast. In the same motion the creature reared up, and Sherlock saw one end of the small metal body ripple, pushing outward into a row of razor teeth!

Sherlock leapt backward and the thing missed his thumb by inches, striking the box instead. Soundlessly, the metal snake curled back into a small pool of tin on the floor before elongating again, and disappearing into the crack between the floorboards.

" . . . what the hell was that?" John whispered, staring at the spot where it had vanished.

"The tin has some sort of mind of its own. If it even is tin." Sherlock jumped up off the floor and headed for the stairs. He dashed up the two flights to the long room where Hoid and the Doctor sat talking to Kelsier and his fiancé—what was her name again? Hoid had told them, he must have deleted it.

"Where did you buy the tin?" Sherlock asked, coming to a halt at the foot of her bed. After a second passed with no response he tried again. "The metal you were burning? It's not tin, or at least it's corrupted, now where did you get it?"

"Lash bought it, last week." She said, gesturing to her brother in the next bed. _Mare_, he suddenly remembered. That was her name.

In full stride now, the detective crossed to the brother's bedside and shook him roughly, ignoring Hoid's protest. "Last week, you bought some tin for you and your sister. It's corrupted; I think that's what's making you sick. Tell me, where did you get it?"

Lash took it in full stride, blinking up at Sherlock only twice before he answered, "I bought it from Raner, the coppercloud—he had a whole brick of it!" He said, voice hoarse.

"And where can I find him?" Sherlock shot back.

"His shop is in the Commercial district, two streets away from the Bronze Gate." Kelsier interrupted. "You think he poisoned them?"

"I don't know yet. I do know something is seriously wrong with that tin." He spun on his heel to brush past John, heading for the door. "Come on Doctor, we need to speak with this 'Raner' and quickly."

"Sherlock, hold up, you don't even know how to find this place, or that it's his fault!" the Doctor said, getting to his feet.

"The tin was corrupted and clearly this boy didn't do it. No connection to the other two victims, ergo, the corruption came from a source above them, we need to follow it up the chain."

"Why are you so sure it's corrupted anyway?" Hoid said. "If the alloy is off by even a hair the allomancer would feel it the second they started burning, we've all done it. But this—."

"Trust me, there was something in it." John interjected.

"Doctor, you said yourself, we need to solve this as fast as possible." Sherlock said, anxious to get moving.

"Yes, alright." The Doctor sighed. "Allons-y! Come on Kelsier, we'll need you to show us the way."

"But—"

"I'll sit with her, Kell." Hoid murmured. "She'll be alright."

With Kelsier lagging reluctantly behind, the Time Lord and the two Londoners hurried out onto the street. "This way" Kell grunted, turning to the right. As soon as he indicated a direction Sherlock broke into a sprint. John and the Doctor simultaneously bit back a sigh and followed his lead.

They were only running for a few seconds before John did a face-plant. His injured knee had collapsed under him as he ran, sending him flying into the pavement. The Doctor jerked around to help him up. John gasped in pain as he tried to put weight on the injured joint.

"I don't think you'll be able to keep up today John." The Doctor said gently. "Why don't you go back and wait with Hoid."

John looked from Sherlock to the Doctor and back, noting how fidgety Sherlock still was. Desperate for the thrill of the chase.

"Fine." He sighed. "But hurry back!" Sherlock smiled gratefully and bolted off down the road again, the others close behind. John held back a sigh as he watched his newly resurrected best friend run off into the fading sun and yet another adventure without him. Resigned, he turned and headed back to Hoid's.

It took them roughly 15 minutes to get to Raner's shop. It was surprisingly large for this section of the city, with two large windows in the front and a sign scrubbed unusually clean of ash. Kelsier walked up to the door and pulled on it without knocking. It was locked. _Odd for it to be closed this time of day, _the detective thought.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed but he ignored it. _Not now John, I'm busy._ The Doctor was sonic-ing the lock (Kelsier had already tried knocking) and soon they were inside.

"Raner!" Kelsier called out. "We need to speak with you!"

The front room was dark, windows obscured by the daily ash. Again, odd. Judging by the businesses they had passed on the way here, shops cleaned their windows first thing in the morning to make their wares visible and to let in light. Despite the semidarkness Sherlock could make out the outlines of shelves along the walls stocked with bags of what appeared to be flour, salt and other foodstuffs.

"I thought he sold metals." The Doctor asked.

"The Skaa class isn't supposed to know allomancy exists, let alone practice it or sell metals." Kelsier replied. "There has to be a legitimate business façade."

To the left of the counter was a closed door, and they could see light underneath. The Doctor knocked, then pushed it open. This room was brightly lit, an oil lamp burning in the corner. Floor to ceiling shelves here too, containing more wares.

"Hello?" Kelsier called out. No answer.

Sherlock was crouched down, staring at the floor intently. The pattern in the spilled flour . . . he stood and began running his hands along the shelves, looking for a hinge, a latch, anything.

There. Locating a small handle on the underside of the lowest shelf, he grabbed it and pulled. The secret door swung back easily, indicating frequent use. Sherlock stepped around it and froze in his tracks.

One does not become a highly respected private detective without becoming accustomed to the sight of dead bodies. But finding a mutilated corpse where you are not expecting one is something that will startle anyone, even Sherlock Holmes.

"Raner." Kelsier said softly.

The dead shopkeeper lay face up on the floor of the hidden room, congealed blood in a pool around him. There were enormous bite marks on his arms and legs, and one massive puncture wound through his chest. Sherlock stepped into small room, carefully avoiding the blood, and began testing the rigor.

"He died sometime last night, after closing." Sherlock said, wishing for John. The doctor's superior medical knowledge could have given them a more specific time frame.

"What kind of animal could do this?" Kelsier wondered aloud. "And how did it get in here?"

Sherlock eyed the wounds on the man's torso and legs. At first glance they appeared to be bite marks, but he had seen a few maulings in his time at Barts, and these were far to clean to be normal bites. Perfectly conical, with no tearing or lacerations. Plus the stab wound in the chest. It was the same as the others, only larger, and what animal bit its prey, didn't tear back at the flesh, then stabbed it with one larger claw? No, this had been something else. Something he had seen once before, only smaller.

The Doctor stood on the other side of the body, tapping and pushing on what appeared to be a solid wall. "There's something behind here, Sherlock." He said over his shoulder.

The detective glanced up. "Second down, third right, then top row, fourth in." The Doctor tapped the correct panels, and with a click a long vertical drawer popped out near the corner.

"How did you know that was there?" Kelsier asked, astonished.

"There's always another secret." The Doctor said with a smile.

Searching the drawers they found that Raner was completely out of tin. Not a speck of it anywhere in the cabinet. "Maybe he sold it all." Kelsier suggested.

"No, Lash said he had a large brick of it. The tin shavings are sold in small vials, there's no way he could have gotten rid of it all within a week." Sherlock said, face and voice deadpan, thinking.

"Then it was stolen."

"Maybe." Sherlock acknowledged, hoping to shut him up.

"But who would steal corrupted tin?"

The detective suppressed a sigh, spinning to face his companions. "I don't know if it was taken or by who, but clearly there's nothing here for us. The only source for data we have is back at Hoid's infirmary, inside your fiancé and her brother. We need to go."

"What about Raner?"

Sherlock's mobile buzzed again. Forcing Kelsier's question on the Doctor, he picked up. "_What,_ John?"

"You've got to get back here." John sounded terrible—out of breath, voice pinched by pain. "One of the victims is dead, Hoid's unconscious, I think he's got a concussion."

"What? What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, it's Hoid I'm—oh, he's coming around now. Hey, you're okay, just a bang on the head, maybe concussed. Sherlock, the man upstairs broke free, came down and—I can't explain it, you need to come back here."

"Alright John, just hang on, we're on our way." Sherlock hung up, already moving, leaving the Doctor and Kelsier to follow.

They ran through the streets of the city, kicking up small clouds of ash in their wake. Sherlock filling the Doctor in on the little he knew as they went. The return journey seemed much farther, but whether Sherlock took a wrong turn or his emotions were just clouding his brain again he could not tell. Finally, finally, the three men came skidding around the corner, Hoid's building coming into view. The front door hung open, hinges bent backwards.

Sherlock ducked through the empty opening and into the narrow hall, calling out for John. "Up here!" came the strained reply. They raced up the stairs three at a time until at last they reached the upper room.

The scene was rather shocking. The entire room was in chaos—furniture turned over, items scattered across the floor, even a section of wall torn away beside the window. John and Hoid sat on the bed closest to the door, the former dabbing at a cut on the other man's forehead. John's bad leg was held straight out in front of him, swelling visible through the jeans. The far bed had been overturned, dumping the body of the Pewterarm, whose name Sherlock had never picked up, onto the floor. The other two beds were empty, covers stripped and shredded.

Sherlock crossed immediately to John. "What happened, are you alright?"

"Yes, we're fine, it's just—"

"What did you do to your leg?" The Doctor asked, crouching down beside him.

"I was running." John replied. "Sherlock, the other victims are gone."

"Gone? Where?"

"We don't know." Hoid cut in. "I was taking blood samples from the other three, when the man upstairs broke his door down. I tried to stop him but he grabbed my head and threw me into the wall."

"I was in here with Mare and her brother. All three of them started shaking, like they were having a seizure. Mare and Lash got up and left, but that one—" John gestured to the man at the end of the room, his face white "He just kept shaking. I left, I tried to follow them, and when I got back he was dead, like that."

Sherlock crossed the room to examine the man's body, while John continued his account. "They weren't themselves, they were like the other man, the one upstairs. I tried to stop them, but they knocked me down too."

The man on the floor was like no corpse Sherlock had ever seen. He was twisted into a horrible position, arms bent backwards and legs curled up. There were great holes in his face and arms at places where the skin was thinnest, like the lips, and the joint of the elbow. The hairs on Sherlock's arms stood up as he realized what had happened. The living metal had ripped its way out of his body, tearing through where the rust had weakened the skin.

"Well we need to find them!" Kelsier was shouting. "Where did they go?"

"If you will all just quiet down for a minute, we can—"

"You should have followed them!"

"Please, calm down!"

"You don't understand, you don't even—"

The mess of raised voices and Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a small crash, the tinkling of broken glass. All eyes turned to look.

The sample Hoid had taken from Mare had fallen from the table in the corner.

A small metal snake was shining across the floor.

**AN:**

**Ha! You thought I was gone for good, did you not?**

**It is true, the great dragons 'Moving' and 'Finding-a-Job' tried their hardest to slay me, but I have bested them and have returned to continue my stirring tale! **

**Seriously, thank you for putting up with this ridiculously long break. I'll be continuing on a more regular basis now. Also, if you're in Utah, come see me at work at KFC. :D**


End file.
